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Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

Driving Alone Through the Sand Hills of Nebraska

My love is light (a fairy kiss?)          
               Like the pressure of sunbeams on your cheek, 
        Ineffable, and yet capable of changing lives…
		Darkening skin to a more attractive hue, 
		Pushing spaceships to distant stars (given time) , 
		Even causing cancer given sufficient lack of love for self.
        For love is not about just getting needs met by another, 
        No, love is more like a laser's coherent beam….
                For in reflecting back a portion of what is given, 
                The power of what is being created grows
                Until it can cut through the hardest steel
        And span the gulf between galaxies.

Poetry too grows through the cross-fertilization of newborn lines, 
        The lines of this poem insist that I record their birth.
 	        Each new line grabs me by the scruff of the neck, 
		       Forces me to hit the brake, grab my pen, 
		       And claim it in my family bible…
	        My only children, clamoring to be set in ink.
         As these Voyagers' pass into the present state of my art
                (Some that I barely recognize in their profligate parentage
	               Of older verse's new verse's newer verse still)          …
		               Somehow still carriers of my own genetic code.
                They press my design against the blank page
	                Flying in search of, homing on… your heart.
 
My love's intent is simply truth (do you want less?)          
	 Would you have me downplay 
	 	The warmth of our connection
                        Because it is complicated by here-to-fore
			        Unacknowledged passion, spiritual connection, 
			        And the remnants of former relationships
			        (Even those still gasping for breath) ? 
		        Or feign a lack of attachment to it's denouement
			         In a solitary attempt to feel safer? 
	 No matter can restrain the effects of gravity
		On the orbits of other bodies in its field of influence, 
		 	Gravity that binds us all in deep wells of space-time.

 Your kiss of greeting…
	After so many years of imagining such a possibility, 
	Imprinted deeper than even my memory of our first meeting, 
		Our moonlit shadows touching as we soaked naked
		In the steaming waters of a volcanic mountain spring.
	This new conjunction of souls occurred in God's clear view, 
		Without artifice or scheming on our part
			And rocked my inner core to it's depths, 
	Organizing molten currents of confused turbidity
	Into a magnetic flare of such intensity
		That iron flew to my spine
	Inspired me to finally declare my love
		To acknowledge your impact on my life…
	And after a period of gestation
		Gave birth to this poem of celebration.

 Back to Nebraskan reality and a new mystery…
	I pass an overturned car, 
		Its wheels tied by yellow police tape, 
	A metaphor for my life perhaps
		'Damaged but still salvageable.'
	The windows are broken out, 
		The occupants removed to a distant hospital somewhere
			(Hopefully arriving alive) , 
		Their odds and ends of life scattered like garbage
			On the inverted ceiling of their car.
	The explanation, perhaps, is the water still standing
		Several inches deep on the road side near the wreck? 
	A sudden orgasmic release of cloud in a desert….
		The car tops the hill to find the highway
			Buried by a lake of dimensions only God can know.
		Who would expect such a thing in Nebraska's sand hills? 

And what does it say about me finally
	That I am so drawn to distant objects, 
        That the two women given access to my heart are
		Both still tied to failed marriages
			By dark chapters I am not part of
			And innocent children who need their love? 
	And at our age where is the partner without a past? 

 Is this all that God has planned for you and me, 
	That we 'just miss' every thirty years or so? 
		I know there are times I am afraid to trust another's love, 
			Cannot even hear words of genuine affection.
		Perhaps this explains my attraction to women
			Whose availability might really be in question? 
		Maybe I'm afraid to let a real lover in? 
			Is the simple dream of love a better choice
				Than the chance of finding real love anew
				(Even love with an expiration date) ? 
		I think I'm more distrustful of my own heart's passion
			Than I am of women being unreceptive to my love.
		Do you struggle with similar feelings? 
	And is it my lot to only remember passion like this in a poem
		While you spiral away to unimagined rendezvous'? 

The coldness of space is not after-all
		The simple absence of heat…
	No, in human dimensionality it is more the absence of others…
		Others who both shine life force toward us
			And reflect our own light back to us, 
		Who collide with us physically and emotionally
			Altering our pathways forever, 
				And who crater the façade whose design
				We imagine belongs to us alone.
	The void of human space-time is a true 'black hole'
		Sporting only star death fragments of the 'Big Bang.'
 
This is all I really know…
	I treasure the memory of our 'fly-bys'
		Even if that's all they ever are.
	And if I'm lucky this joy, 
                This celebration of your existence, 
	Will continue to pour out of me in songs and verse…
		For your ears always (if I am so honored) , 
			For God's heart (as I was born to honor Him) , 
	And to the stars alone if I have only them for company.

Brian Johnston
August 2009
     
This poem, like 'A Walk Near Blunt, ' began during an actual drive from South 
Dakota to Oklahoma and then took on a life of it's own. These 'real life 
narrative' poems are part of an attempt on my part to give precedence to truth 
and content over form and rhyme. For readers with an interest in science, I 
hope you also enjoy my attempt in this and other poems to bring my love of 
Physics into the world of poetic imagery.


Long poem by Dylan Irvin | Details |

Phantom Journals

Phantom Journal Entry 1
 Wednesday 8:03 A.M.
I found Jesus at a bus stop this morning. He recommended that I comb my hair. I told him if I had any nails I would hand them over.  Monty  found a shoe full of vomit by a dumpster. Someone had an interesting night. This apartment smells like stale french fries. Frank is still sleeping on the counter next to Mr. Coffee. There is a stray cat clawing at the windowpane. The town is gradually waking up. The park across the street is filled with shirkers. My mind is still living in last night’s conversation. But I don’t remember it very well.  Shit, I’m going to be late for 

Phantom Journal Entry 2

Wednesday 11:13 P.M.

Work sucked. I think the bartender is an alcoholic. She hides a flask in her bra. It fell out when we were in the stall together. Frank is sprawled across the kitchen floor. Monty steps over him to grab a beer. The stray cat is now sleeping on the windowpane. Nothing ever changes from morning to night. Except Monty is drinking coffee and not beer. 

Phantom Journal Entry 3

Good Friday 9:47 P.M.

The ocean left the brine. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their dreams are living in my beer. The worms are drunk on the stove. Frank passed out hugging the toilet. Monty takes a piss right next to his face. Some girl just asked me what I was writing. I told her that I was rewriting the Bible. She seemed confused. Her hair wasn’t combed either. The guy at the bus stop would be ashamed. I can’t remember his name though. The television can’t stop spewing poorly scripted ‘reality’ shows. This Friday isn’t very Good. 

Phantom Journal Entry 4

Monday 3:12 A.M.

My eyes are broken garage doors off the tracks. I’ve drank too much Red Bull. She keeps waking up and asking me for water. Apparently her mouth is in a drought. A dead soldier lays between her breasts. Frank keeps drooling on the carpet. My favorite ash tray is tipped over next to Mr. Coffee. This desk keeps hiding words from me. Monty wonders how much a plane ticket to Hell costs. He never sleeps.

Phantom Journal Entry 5

Thursday 12:31 A.M.

It smells of raw fish and bleach in here.  My palms are sore. Monty told me to stab myself with pencils to make sure I could still bleed. So I did.  That girl ordered me a pizza. But I forgot it under the couch.  The medicine chest is nearly empty. When Frank wakes up he is taking a trip to 5th Street to get more. I wonder if they sell bandages there? Will Mr. Coffee brew marijuana for us? My brain is starting to throw up. 

Phantom Journal Entry 6

Thursday 12:38 A.M.

This desk keeps mocking me. I offered it to the guy at the bus stop, but he said he didn’t want anymore wood. The dishes are now a chemistry project. But Mr. Coffee is always clean. I can’t get this girl to stop showing me her tattoos. I miss the bartender at work. She got fired tomorrow. So I bought her a new bra. The medicine chest is empty now. Frank is never awake when I write.

Phantom Journal Entry 7

Thursday 4:30 P.M.

I finally got the garage doors fixed. I guess they weren’t closed enough.  There is a ghost that keeps haunting the hallway in my dreams. She is pretty hot. Except she keeps tilting the pictures on the wall.
The thirsty girl still won’t leave. Neither will the cat. We may have found the cure for cancer in our dishes. But probably not.  Frank is talking in his sleep about stepping on rats. Monty is listening to Beethoven while he attempts to write poetry. He is an awful writer. 

Phantom Journal Entry 8

Monday 1:49 A.M.

The guy at the bus stop asked me if I wanted to drink his blood. I told him I wasn’t thirsty. The water was running from the shower. Frank was dreaming in the tub. Monty ate chicken wings with the tattooed girl. I can’t remember her name. I think that cat is hungry too. Mr. Coffee wants to go to sleep. There is broken glass sticking out of my feet. The sky is bleeding white. My mind begins to masturbate.

Phantom Journal Entry 9

Sunday 3:33 A.M.

The brine is looking for the ocean. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their realities are dead on the floor. This desk is growing a face. The medicine chest is full. Monty picks up a filthy habit from the black lake. I haven’t seen Frank for a few days. He must be under the couch. I robbed the guy at the bus stop. Turns out he didn’t really save much. The thirsty tattooed girl shattered Mr. Coffee last night. I will miss him dearly. Now my shot glass is spawning worms. 

Phantom Journal Entry 10

Tuesday and I don’t know what time it is

It’s been 369 days since I last wrote an entry. I’ve simply had nothing to say. Monty is living in the streets somewhere. I think of him every time I buy a loaf of bread. I wonder if he found out how much tickets cost? That cat finally starved a few weeks ago. I married that thirsty tattooed girl. I still don’t remember her name though. Frank went to sleep in someone elses apartment. Never did talk to him much. The worms are all marching in a line. Someone stole my medicine chest. I think it was Monty.  The guy at the bus stop was thrown into an asylum. But somehow vanished one day. The garage doors are now closed on a regular basis. That ghost finally straightened out the tilted pictures. I think I’ve been combing my hair a lot better lately. I am still a phantom to society. But that’s okay. Nobody knows my name.








Long poem by J. W. M. Earnings | Details |

My Beloved Disease - Let's Dance to the Music

Verse 1:

P!nk: Ohhh mmmm… 
You’re beyond brilliant…
Me: You’re so extremely exquisite…you amaze me – you get 
the hint? Our love is a fiery rose…and like a daffodil flower, 
it grows
Hmmmm mmm…
Rihanna: All along, I was in denial…
Beyonce/P!nk/me: But I’m singing this lullaby with a touch 
of wildness and surreal style…
I’m going with the flow and I go wherever I go – that’s just 
part of it
That’s just part of me…so, don’t envy me 
Rihanna: Go where the wicked wind do blow
Me: I’m a victim to my alienated ambition
I see your true colors show and I glow when I see fit…
Beyonce: I’m going with the flow and I go wherever I go – 
that’s just part of it
That’s just part of me…so, don’t envy me 
Go where the wicked wind do blow
Me: I’m a victim to my alienated ambition
I see your true colors show and I glow when I see fit…
Your auras change color and it stimulates my eyes
Your truth ain’t tainted with abominable lies

*Chorus* 

That’s my satisfying decision…you’re an addiction
I gottah keep pace to run this race the right way…
Alright, you’re making my day
Satisfaction is ours, baby…
Can you see it like fireworks in the sky?
Did you ever wish to be free
Like those mockingbirds and jays in the aqua-blue sky? 
You and I will receive the ability to fly
The ability to show off our inner glow…yah know…soooo…
And we’ll be putting up a show…yah know…yah know…let the 
wicked wind blow…oooh ahhahah ohhh…
Take away my flaws…
And give me a big applause
Let go of all worries
Gather around me, my stinging, beautiful bees…
I get pleasure off of your applauses…giving me satisfaction…
I feel like I’m top dog right now!

Verse 2:

Katy Perry: I’m stingy to the core
But, I ain’t bore…or an attention whore
You tore up my heart…and yah broke it apart…you have no 
heart… Rihanna: Oooh…ohohoh you were my beloved 
disease – but, now you’re a cancer, growing in my heart
Rihanna/Katy: You hated on me from the start
P!nk: But, I (yah) gottah get up and try and try and try…x2
Oooh…ohohoh you were my disease
You put my heart, body and mind at ease…So please…so 
please…so please…
Don’t leave me brokenhearted…this scene won’t play
Hey! Hey! What do yah think you’re doing? Stop acting all 
stupid, ok? 
Oh oh! Aawww oh oh!
You put my heart, body and mind at ease…P!nk: So pretty, 
pretty please…so please…so pretty, pretty please…
Don’t leave me brokenhearted…this scene won’t play – stop 
being a tease – I won’t succumb to YOUR disease
Katy Perry: I’m stingy to the core
But, I ain’t bore…or an attention whore
You tore up my heart
You hated on me from the start
Rihanna: Oooh…ohohoh you were my disease
You put my heart, body and mind at ease…
Me: You’re my fantasy – you’re just that fancy & fantastic…
so epic…
Rihanna/me: You’re perfect just the way you are – you didn’t 
blow it and you’re amazing, so admit it – let’s dance to the 
music

(Lady Gaga:  UNSUPPORTED CODE  
Boom da boom doom da-doom boom! X2)

(all should chant this: Give me your all…your all…stand tall – 
give me your all! 
Give me your best shot…give it your your all…I’ll catch you if 
you fall!)

*Chorus*

That’s my satisfying decision…you’re an addiction
I gottah keep pace to run this race the right way…
Alright, you’re making my day
Satisfaction is ours, baby…
Can you see it like fireworks in the sky?
Did you ever wish to be free
Like those mockingbirds and jays in the aqua-blue sky? 
You and I will receive the ability to fly
The ability to show off our inner glow…yah know…soooo…
And we’ll be putting up a show…yah know…yah know…let the 
wicked wind blow…oooh ahhahah ohhh…
Take away my flaws…
And give me a big applause
Let go of all worries
Gather around me, my stinging, beautiful bees…
I get pleasure off of your applauses…giving me satisfaction…
I feel like I’m top dog right now!
*Bridge*
P!nk: Pretty, pretty please…so please…so pretty, pretty 
please…
Don’t leave me brokenhearted…this scene won’t play – stop 
being a tease – I won’t succumb to YOUR disease
Rihanna/Beyonce: Hey! Hey! What do yah think you’re 
doing? Fine – go ahead and do yo thang, honey…
Stop acting all stupid, ok, boy? You be cruising with your 
gang…
Oh oh! Aawww oh oh! You’re a funny guy! 
Beyonce: You’re interesting beyond reason and logic…our 
love ain’t plastic
You’re not another brick in the wall…you can’t fix what’s 
broken
Rihanna: Where have you been? Where have you been? I’ve 
been searching around for you – feeling this anguish 
adrenalin again and again
Rihanna: hmmm oooh… You were and always will be my 
beloved disease…
So, please don’t say otherwise – you put my mind at ease…
you are the blessed breeze…
Sweeping across my face…
Oh boy, you aren’t a disgrace…


Long poem by Peter Duggan | Details |

In memory of Bob

In memory of Bob
A true story.

It was in spring of two thousand when I first saw Bob. I’d just started working at Perth Dental hospital, and in fact it was my first day there. I walked up to the front door of this building, but it wasn’t yet opened. So I turned around and went to sit in the bus shelter which was just outside the building. As I went to sit down I noted a dark skinned gentleman sitting there with a happy, benign look on his face. He was about five feet eight give or take a little, and he was rather a thickset man who looked like he’d done his fair share of hard work in his sixty years or more.

     There was something about this Gentleman that I could not quite put my finger on. He had a certain charisma about him; not the phony kind of charisma that one seen in the car salesman or the philanderer who messes with women’s heads, no, Bob had a kind of friendly smile for everyone that he met, and he seemed to draw people into him with his love, and gigantic heart. I knew as soon as I met him that Bob was most definitely for me.

      As Bob looked at me and smiled, the whole world seemed to open up. He said “Ow ya  going mate” in a loud ebullient manner, then we started to chat. Bob was like myself, a thinker, and straight away we started philosophizing about this, that, and the other, and it was like we had known each other forever. Then all of a sudden I found Bob talking about death, and the difference in the way the Maori people faced death, compared to the rather the silly way us white folk look at the subject with great fear in our hearts. Now this had always interested me, and  somehow it just seemed natural to talk to this Maori gentlemen on this subject, and we spoke about it till the doors opened and it was time to work.

      I don’t think anything happens just by chance, and I definitely have this feeling that Bob and I were meant to meet, and I really think this was a major destiny thing. I have found during the course of my life,  that as I am aging, I can feel something pushing me into a certain direction, and I always felt that Bob was part of all this; and I had much to learn from him. Although I have never believed in organized religion, and never followed one I have always felt deeply spiritual, and I have met many people who I learned from, and Bob was most definitely one of them with all his great wisdom and patience. As I came to know Bob, we had many dialogues together, on many subjects. Bob used to love music and could always have time to plonk away on his guitar. He used to come round to my place and we would play songs together, though both he and I were no Eric Clapton’s, I would bang around on my guitar and play the harp, while we would both take out turns at singing. We’d have a smoke or a beer or two, and we’d play songs all day long,  ahhh, I remember those days well, the memories are so strong.

     Bob was one hell of a man, I could tell that he had been a wild one in his youth,
But when I knew him in his sixties he was an icon of wisdom and virtue; he had a kind word for everyone, and gave all his time to anybody who needed him, always.
He used to hear me waffling on like an idiot, trying to make him like me [as I always did] but never once did he tell me how foolish I was, he would just smile knowingly at me. He used to stand there at the window for hours, just drinking in the trees, or the clouds in the sky, and yet he was so aware, I used to try to sneak up on him; it couldn’t be done. His awareness was incredible.

     Then one day Bob fell ill with terminal cancer, and he knew that he had very little time left on this Earth. He lay there sick for days in intolerable pain,  but you never heard one complaint from him, even when he only had days to live, he was still worrying about the welfare of others. When the day finally come for Bob to leave his shell; he was lying there in deep sleep, when all of a sudden he woke up, with a smile on his face. His children asked him ‘Dad, do you want some pain killers” Bob laughed, compassion written all over his face, and he said to them ‘Not one of you has a clue, have you’ and he died with a big smile on his face.

   His daughter got in touch with me, and told me about his death, and also told me that his last wish was to have me watch his soul leave his body. I felt very honored about this and went and sat with his body [as Maoris do]. I got the most peaceful feeling come to me [which I presume was his spirit leaving his body] as I watched his silent body, a Mari war stick and a beautiful rose lay across his chest. I still see it, and I feel blessed by it. He was my Maori warrior, and I adored the man.
 


Long poem by Elaine George | Details |

Tea and Poetry in the Ides of March - PART THREE

Again the alarm is set.

Strawberries, date squares…Yum, Yum.   

The alarm rings again. The tea party is over.

 She returns to her perch where her wings are immediately clipped by the Bald Eagle who informs her that a bird doesn’t chirp when her poem is being critiqued, that a bird just listens. 

“I didn’t know this was a critiquing session,” she chirps.
I thought it was an afternoon of poetry reading. 

“Bring two poems”, is all that the Raven requested.
 
God! What does she know about critiquing? Everything she knows about poetry, she has learned from a website. She still hasn’t really grasped the meaning of Iambic Tetrameter. 

The scar beneath her ring, feels as if it might explode as what remains of her Revlon mask begins to melt under the heat of her humiliation.

God! Please don’t let them see I am a fraud, she prays, as she desperately tries in vain to regain their acceptance, as if there was any in the first place; her being such a sparrow.

The Bald Eagle twitters a poem about her battle with cancer, which brings her to tears. Again, she dares to dream she can be one of this flock as she too is a cancer survivor. It is decided the Bald Eagle’s poem needs punctuation.

Again, still daring to dream of acceptance, she chirps that most of her poetry is also written with very little or no punctuation.

“Well,” the Raven caws, “your poem in comparison is child’s play,” and with those words, breaks the strings of her ‘Violin’. 

***

As the afternoon wears on, the Crow caws for her to be quiet as she can’t hear. Visions of Vultures begin to fly in her head.

Later the old Crow caws that the bird she is addressing as a Blue Bird is not a Bluebird and that the only Bluebird is the Raven’s wife and that the bird she is addressing is a Turkey.

Even, while responding to something the Turkey has chirped to her, the Turkey gobbles for her to be quiet because the Crow is cawing.  

The scar beneath her ring now feels like it is splitting apart. Again, all she can see is red. The Vultures are circling now.
 
Her second poem, ’The Rise and fall of An Empire, is received with little pecking, other than ‘Well it’s poetic.’ 

The Raven caws, “If he were to be cruel, he would say it contains a cliché,” (a cardinal sin in poetry) as he caws an excerpt from her poem (as the sea grasses sing).  
 
The Turkey, demurely and with a gobble of sarcasm, inquires if everything she writes is in rhyme, as she casts a disdainful glance at her book of poetry.

At 4 p.m., when the final alarm has gone off, the Turkey announces that the next meeting will be at her Nest. 

 The Raven caws, “The sparrow doesn’t know where you live.”

 The Turkey then asks her for her email address, but doesn’t write it down and gobbles she will email her, her address before the next meeting. 

“Don’t hold your breath,” cackles the Sparrow’s little voice inside.

The Turkey then drops a book on the coffee table. 

Still foolishly seeking acceptance, the Sparrow chirps, “Is that your book of poetry?” 

 “No, it is ‘Descant’, and I have a poem published in this edition,” she gobbles.

“Yes!” the Crane pipes up. “It’s the only book that REALLY matters, the BOOK that all birds want to be published in,” ruffling her feathers with her innuendo. What? The pitiful Sparrow doesn’t even know what Descant is, she with her self-published book of poetry.

 Then the flock gathers together, chirping amongst themselves, and begin to fly away without a single chirp to her, like “Nice to have met you.” “Hope you will come to our next meeting.”

No!  They simply leave her there with her wings clipped and her veil removed, having been incinerated by their hot air. 

They leave her there with her Revlon mask melting like candle wax, sliding down her face, all their black barbs having finally penetrated her thin skin, exposing her for who she really is.

Not an intellect, not a fraud, just a Sparrow, now in the autumn of her life; a Sparrow who at the age of 16 dared to dream beautiful dreams while living in a nightmare. 

A Sparrow, who had many years ago seen an old broken violin in a junk shop and was so moved by its haunting beauty she was inspired to write a poem.

A Sparrow, who as a chick, with her brother, on a summer day, built an Empire made of sand, in a land where sea grasses sang—A Sparrow who knew why violins and willows weep.

A Sparrow who knew she would never be one of them. 

Yet she was grateful!

Grateful she had survived the Ides of March, and on this day was left wondering how something so ugly could have grown from something as beautiful as poetry. 
~~~


Long poem by Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |

Pink Pink Pink


Pink- Pink- Pink- Every peak has its own attractions, Like the mountains, The mounts of a woman, Have always remained, Her pride possessions. 01 It has the charms, More intoxicating than wine, As it reveals the beauty, Of a woman's alluring binds. 02 These mounts gives, The wings of imagination and colors, In the mind of an artist, And they arise the passion, In lovers mind.03 Their rise and fall, Has shaken great empires, Under their cool and peaceful shade, The dreams of a child form shapes. 04 Its serenity has given birth, To most pious and holy figures on Earth, And their warmth have shaped the dreams, Of many powerful kingdoms on Earth.05 They feed life giving milk, To every new born light, Every time they laugh and cry, These lofty mounts, Help in forming shapes, When the child begins its story. 06 But these pride possessions, Of a woman, These lofty inspirations, Of Poets, Writers and Artists, These magical charms Which often become more attractive, Than the face of a woman, Are facing, A wide spread pollution,* Which is the unwanted gift of Modern living and They are also the gifts, Of worst living habits, Adopted by thousands, and millions of woman, As they fall prey, Before the charms, And shows of modern generation. 07 Many such wonderful women, Who are in the grip of this pollution,* Have brought this curse on them, Mostly because, Of their own follies and errors. 08 Many such suffering women, Can really get rid of, From the curse of this pollution,* If only they can show, The courage to adopt, The natural way, Of living and breathing, Possible under the boon like shade, Of real Yoga. 09 The reasons, Of the distortions,* Of their pink pink ribbons, Are mainly the results, Of their own creations, And these results, Are not something, For which, One should blame, The destiny or God every time. 10 Some of the serious reasons are, Not caring rightly, For one’s own pride possessions, And the lack of, Physical manipulations. Not keeping, A cool and calm mind, And eating, From morning till night, All the junk foods and wine. 11 And working, Beyond all time limits, While stressing, your peaceful mind. 12 Running and more running To catch others, So that you may not leg behind. 13 And madly crying, For more and more wealth, Even if you have sufficient, For your life time. 14 Are the reasons, Which invite the pollution,* To sow its rotten seeds, To spoil, The enchanting valley, Which exists, Amid the mounts of, Pink pink flowers. 15 The pollution,* Can still be derived out, With the little practice of Yoga, But it remains untouched, And unsung about, By most of the modern women. 16 These otherwise elegant women, Regularly face the problems, Of distress, Lack of peace, And sound sleep. Which ultimately take away, Their happiness, And coolness of mind, Resulting in strengthening more, The un sprouted seeds of pollution.* 17 Still it is not too late, If they can only change, Their life styles, Their eating and drinking habits, And adopt from today, The way of natural living, By adopting, The boon like Yoga. 18 As the practice of Yoga, Not only add years to your life, But life to your years, as well. 19 Ravindra Kanpur India 15th Nov. 2012 *Pollution- The other name of Cancer. Those who want to share their views on My above Poem may write to me on my yahoo mail id: kapoor_skk@yahoo.com I would welcome your brief comments and if possible I will reply you. Thanking you in anticipation. Ravindra K Kapoor Inspired by Poet Destroyer I am dedicating this Poem to all those women of the world, who are facing any such problem of Pollution* And to those also who are not facing it, so that their life my feel the joy of living under the blessings of Yoga. Ravindra
TO OVERCOME OR TO TAKE PRECAUTION ON THIS PROBLEM UP TO SOME EXTENT- ONE CAN START WITH ANY ONE OR TWO OR THREE OR ALL FIVE OF THE SIMPLE YOGA EXERCISES I HAVE GIVEN IN MY ‘YOGA IN POEM’ SERIES 1 TO 5 ON POETRY SOUP IT- SELF. YOUR COMMENTS WOULD BE HIGHLY APPRECIATED. http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=490745 IMPORTANT NOTE: The best effects of Yoga can only be obtained if it includes the main exercises of essential ‘PRANAYAMA’ otherwise it wouldn’t yield the desired results and PRANYAM should be learn properly first. Ravindra K Kapoor


Long poem by Rob Tierney | Details |

Comparisons

COMPARISONS

I sit here now back on my bed
Bandaged and still quite sore
I think back to my Mum and Dad
And all they both endured

My Dad he died of cancer
My Mum of MND
Both were unpleasant ways to go
Distressing all and me

My Dad he said the whole way through
That such things were quite shit
“It's not the hand that you get dealt”
“But how you play with it”

He played his days, diagnosis on
With courage and true grit
He even kept his old jumper
Into which he once had fit

In his last days his breath grew weak
He just slept more and more
No longer looked like my dear Dad
Not like he'd looked before

I wasn't with him in the end
When he drew his last breath
I wished I'd been to hold his hand
And hold him as he left

My Mum was strong for all of us
Who were then left behind
We tried to not upset her heart
She's say she didn't mind

We spoke of Dad and often laughed
But sometimes we just cried
It cuts us all when we all thought
Of just the way he died




Bereft of hope, robbed of his strength
Left just an empty shell
Locked up tight inside his frame
He must have gone through hell

Then comes my Mum, my guiding light
She strode right to the fore
She grasped the lead and stood up tall
And led us all once more

For 10 years plus she moved right on
Taking all in her stride
You could tell she missed my Dad
Some things you cannot hide

She too grew ill, and felt real weak
They couldn't find out why
When told that she was terminal
I just sat down and cried

“Why was this all happening now?”
“This all seems so unfair!”
My Mum just smiled, said “C'est la vie”
And sat back in her chair

We visited Mum alternate nights
Myself and partner Lynn
Some days we did a double shift
Although it did us in

I too got ill, not bad of course
But I could not visit
Aware of just how ill Mum was
But I could not risk it

Xmas '11 was an awful time
It really was so sad
Advancing days, time growing short
Not knowing how long we had

My Mum was now in her last days
She knew it too as well
It was just like a crap repeat
Of my Dads sheer hell

Her last day came, I got the call
As I put down the phone
I realised now straight away
I felt now so alone

An old orphan, a silly thought
No Dad and now no Mum
I waited for it all to stop
But no release would come

My world just stopped, the sun still shone
The world just turned each day
My heart was black, devoid of love
“I want to run away”

But that is not the man I am
I buckle but I do not fall
I'm bruised, and bashed and bloodied
But I am walking tall

I feel I am my fathers son
Much more now than before
For those having a real nightmare
I really do implore

Do not give up, do not back down
Stand up for what you feel
Don't be part of the machine
Do all that makes you real

Break down and cry and shout and swear
If its what gets you through
Who gives a damn what others think
Just be true to you

I didn't think I'd get over
Losing my dear old Mum
But now it's over 2 years on
And rarely I am glum

All I do is sit right down
And shut my eyes real tight
And I am back with Mum and Dad
And everything feels right

Whoever said the age old phrase
“Out of sight is out of mind”
Please send this silly sod to me
I'll boot their big behind

My Mum and Dad, live evermore
In cells and blood and mind
And through their kids and legacy
They both have left behind

Still here on earth not visible
Most of the time it's true
But I still sit and talk to them
As I would talk to you

I talk to them, you'll think I'm mad
I simply do not care
It just makes me feel really safe
To know that they're still there

So now I sit down in my room
Upon my empty bed
They both reside down here with me
Even though both are long dead

There's more to life than physical
Of this you can be sure
There's spirits, aura's genetics too
And feelings too are pure

So when I think of Dad and Mum
I sit down with a smile
And shut my eyes to be with them
For just a little while

I feel their warmth, deep in my soul
Just like a summers day
It brightens up my darkest times
And chases them away

I'll leave you now to close my eyes
And see them both again
I'll tell them that I spoke of them
With love and peace my friends
----------XXX---------


Long poem by William Masonis | Details |

A Hospital Stay - Part V

                                                                  5.

                                                        The In-Between

     There, in the In-Between,
     No trumpets sound
     No beings clad in gold celestial fire
     Arrive as guides to the heart's desire,
          Only silence falls
     Throughout the velvet deep profound.
     At the In-Between,
          No Savior calls
     For there is naught but nothingness;
     An emptiness entire.

Strangely, I sensed myself suspended
In a nevertime of not-quite-being.

Such was the In-Between, where now I wandered.

As though it had always been,
I felt myself afloat, adrift
Upon some frigid river full of ice
Which had no source and knew no end,
That traveled 'round and 'round and back again upon itself
Rising and falling over distant hills and bearing me with it
- Or rather, what was left of me -
Along in its meaningless, endless circuit.

Nor dark nor light intruded.
Vision compassed only what might be envisioned,
Images forming and fading
Within the little cavern of my skull.

Voices without discernable words.
Murmmerings within the waters.

Something like a sword
Was lodged down my throat.
I gagged upon it, over and over;
Unseen hands would withdraw it, then shove it down again.

The main thought flickering in my head
As I lay in this place
Was of how I seemed to have become some frail remnant
Of whatever I once was.
No longer did I have that sense of flesh
Containing the shape of me,
Nor the feel of muscle, nor the bone beneath.
I felt I had somehow been rendered
Some modern scientific wonder,
A creature flayed alive yet living
In some embryonic form, possessed of such shape as it could claim
By virtue of a remaining mass of nervous tissue;
A minimalist miracle
Preserved in a nutrient bath by the power and will
Of a conclave of white smocked High Priests of medicine.

Strangest of all, perhaps
Was that this perception of my fate
Occasioned in me not horror, 
But rather a regretful sadness.
"What will they tell my wife?" I sighed in my mind.

     Yet, by slow degrees the feel of the outward world
     Stole in upon my little hell of shapelessness.
     The throbbing thing I seemed to have become
     Refleshed itself somehow,
     Though the sword in its throat remained.

Distant voices resolved into speech again,
And as they did I felt myself begin moving again
'Round and 'round as before, still on circuit
But no longer floating on ice.
Now, instead, I seemed lain on some unseen track
Circling through a low-roofed sandstone cavern.

When I passed the band of light 
That marked the faroff entrance of this cave,
I would hear the voice of that Boy Who Would Be Our King
Exhorting the Disunited Nations
To join his crusade to punish his chosen scapegoat
For an evil he had helped loose upon the world.
The long silences that followed his harangues
Revealed the skepticism of his audience.

     I could sense that a long roll call of the dead
     Would soon be scrolling past the world's collective eyes,
     Be his call accepted or no;
     This was for show, decisions had already been made.

I regained perception of how dangerous things were becoming out there,
Out there where I'd lost my way, to stumble into this place,
How long ago I could no longer recall.

I knew this to be its nature, though
And as well that this was where I belonged, Out There
Where the only source of peace or peace of mind
Was the hope we wove between ourselves
With threads of unstoppable possibilities
The human way spins for itself.

I knew where I belonged, and reached out for it.

     I came back to be within
     The folds of all I love
     To seek the mystic shine of life
     Expressed in friends, relations, wife
     Awaiting my return.
     I began to climb Above
     Back to where all hopes begin
     To where desires brightly burn
     Until their ash shines whiter than
     The purer feathers of the dove.


Long poem by Joe Flach | Details |

Keeping Poop in Perspective

I walk my dog every day – usually, several times a day.  I probably remember to take a doggie-poop-bag with me 95% percent of the time.  Because she also runs loose in our fenced in back yard – my dog probably only poops on our walks 25% of the time.  But – that 5% of the time that I forget to bring along a poop-bag guarantees that she poops 100% of the time on those occasions!  Or, so it seems.

This morning, I forgot to stick a poop-bag in my pocket for our morning walk.  She pooped.  So, I turned around and went back home to get a poop bag to pick up her mess.

As we returned to the scene of the crime, I discovered we were too late.  Two women, one hopping up and down, steaming mad and shouting obscenities, were standing near, what was now a smashed pile of doggie do-do.

“I am so sorry,” I said as I walked up to clean up the remaining mess.

“Sorry,” the hopping lady shouted, “sorry doesn’t help me now, does it?  Why the hell can’t you people clean up after your dogs?  How hard is it to keep your damn dog from sh*tting on the sidewalk?”

“I am sorry,” I repeated.  “I always pick up after my dog, I just forgot the bag this morning and rushed right home to get it.  I apologize I did not get back here before you came along.”

“Well, a lot of god-damned good that does me now,” she continued to shout.  “My shoes are ruined thanks to you.  God damn it!”

“Look, lady,” I said, trying to remain calm.  “I said I was sorry.  If your shoes are ruined, give me your name and address and I will send you the money for new shoes.”

“Thanks a lot”, still shouting, “but, you’ve just ruined my whole day.  I try to take a walk in the morning to start the day off right and idiots like you have to go and f*ck it all up!”

 “Ma’am,” I said, in as calm a voice as possible, “I think you should keep this in perspective.  You stepped in a pile of dog sh*t and got it all over your shoe.  It’s not like you stepped in a pile of cancer and got it all over your body.  You can go home and throw your shoes out and let me buy you a new pair – your prognosis looks pretty good.  And, it is up to you.  You can allow this small matter to ruin your whole day or you can go on with your day and be thankful that this is probably the worst thing that will happen to you today.  The choice is yours.  I suggest you make a wise one.”

Her friend, whose shoulder she was leaning on to keep the soiled foot off of the ground, although I am not sure why she was hopping around like she had a broken foot, couldn’t help but start to smile and giggle, just a little bit.

The furious woman looked angrily at her friend; looked down on me in contempt as I picked up the remaining poop; looked at my dog who just stood there with her tail wagging madly and, after a minute or two, miraculously calmed down; put her raised foot back on the ground; and, smiled.

“You know what,” she asked, “you are right.”  Her friend winked at me and she continued.  “It is just a pile of dog sh*t.  I can absolutely get over this and not let it ruin my day.  You know what else?  Of all the piles of dog sh*t in this world, I’m glad I stepped in yours.  Thank you for your offer to buy me a new pair of walking shoes, but that won’t be necessary, I’ll keep these, thank you.  And, every day I put these shoes on for my morning walk I will be reminded that I did not step into a pile of cancer and I will think about those poor souls who have and keep my miseries in perspective.  Thank you for that reminder.”

She and her friend turned and continued on their morning walk laughing along the way.

I patted my dog on her head; tied the poop bag closed; and made a promise not to forget the darn poop bags ever again.

(This is a fictional tale.  I thought this story up as I was walking back to my house to get a poop bag to pick up my dog's pile this morning after I forgot the bag.)


Long poem by Stephen Kilmer | Details |

Reflections of Cold Wars

Dad is that you?    What are you doing there in the mirror?

I am trying to shave and I don’t need any help.

Do they shave in heaven or is it just cribbage and puzzles?

Do you like it there? 

 Does it matter?

Yes of course it does.
  
As long as you feel better that’s all that matters.

*
Inside the monkey smiles and knows you want it to be better you don’t to have to sweat it. The guilt would kill you. After everything he did for you…….. Shutting down your dreams of college and trying to force you into the military . Making sure you never had enough money to get out of the hood and for Christ’s sake take care of your sister’s virginity. I survived only to look and be just like him.
*
And now what are you going to do? Dig the same hole. To late some asshole out on the peninsula has already started. He claims it cures cancer. All I know it that he stands in it for hours without moving and chants some mumbo jumbo. Too many years in special ops with the Air Cav can cause that to happen to a man. Hot LZ’s and medevac’s can make a man plum crazy- the things he sees.
*
They are everywhere and nowhere. Kill them all and let God sort them out was my mantra. If it can’t shoot and it ain’t breathing then it can’t hurt me. Stay low and keep moving cause if you stand still you become a target and if you get hit you become as statistic on a chart going round the world while they zip you up in body bag. And for what the CBS evening news with Dan Rather? Was it worth it; is it ever worth it to save freedom? What are we saving it from? Common belief would have us think that within every gook there was an American dying to get out. That ain’t the truth. For every gook there was a man and wife and a family and at the least they wanted peace. The question is who didn’t want peace? Was it the war machine in America? The Soviets do not want Americas to have a foothold in their territory. Is the domino theory still in effect or are there men that just never forget? I think when it comes to safety money wins out every time.
*
Wars leave people lonely; waiting and wondering what happened to the people they love. Some times they find each other and share the pure joy that only a human can fathom. Other times it never comes when we are left to wonder why we lost someone in the first World War. He was young and full of spirit. The old men egged him on trying to remember if they were peeling potatoes or sitting in a forward area shooting at Germans.
*
The cicada’s are out tonight and they are busting my balls. I can’t get that noise out of my head. I saw my head Doc today and they did an CAT scan but from preliminary sources it appears to be A OK. I don’t care what they say I still hear the Cicada’s and they aren’t waiting around for the next 17-year cycle. They are here now and they are in my head. No amount of drugs or alcohol seems to be able to drive them away. My Doctor chalks it up to my rock-roll-days and basically says that I am all but screwed and will never get better. I guess he's betting the odds that I will be dead before they find a fix. I am good with that. I am always up for a good wager. One day he will hear the choppers. And as old Willie Nelson once said, “There’s more old drunk’s than there are all doctors so I guess I will have another beer.” But if this buzzing doesn’t stop there’s going to be a momma with one less cowboy to have to have worry about. War kills people in the strangest and most mysterious ways.


Long Poems